Remembrance Sunday
by Tammany Tiger
Summary: John and Major Sholto attend Remembrance Sunday at the Cenotaph in London. A lot of character study, a bit of adventure. John, Mary, Mycroft, Sherlock, Major Sholto. Not slash. Pro-Mary. Rated T mainly because the content is just not light. But it's not sexy, violent, or graphic. Just kind of grownup mature.


I will admit: I find John Watson among the hardest of characters to write, because the soul inside that fuzzy jumper is much tougher, more complex, and more conflicted than John Watson wants even himself to know.

This particular story took me a bit longer to write than some do. It's tangled and complicated.

For those who want to know going in: It's not slash. It's reasonably pro-Mary Morstan. It comes at John's deep love for Sherlock from a different direction than it would if it were slash. I hope it's good. I hope you enjoy it.

Work Text:

"Are you going to the service?" Mary asked a week before Remembrance Sunday.

"Thinking about it," John said, pulling on a familiar shirt, trying to ignore the hiccupping cry of the baby as he got ready for the day's work. "Terror threat's supposed to be pretty bad, this year. Might give it a miss."

"John Watson, give danger a miss? Never," Mary chuckled. She leaned in the room and blew him a kiss.

He smiled back at her. They'd come a long way since that horrible time between when Sherlock had identified her as his shooter, and the aftermath of that Christmas, when so much changed. "Well. Maybe. If the threat goes up a bit higher, it might be worth it," he teased. "Maybe I should get Sherlock to assess it—anything less than a four and I stay home. Over a six and it's a must-see."

"No, not Sherlock. Have him ask Mycroft," Mary said, laughing at his imitation of Sherlock at his fussiest. "He'd know."

John rolled his eyes. "No doubt somewhere in the statistics and the special reports he has a clue. I think I'll stick to the news on the telly. But—yeah. I may go."

"Let me know, then, if you want me and the girl-child to come with you," Mary said, cheerfully. "Happy to go with."

"Thought maybe I'd go on my own, this year," John said, staring into the mirror as he tied his tie and groped for the soft cashmere sweater-vest Mary had bought him as an anniversary present. "You've got enough to do managing the baby, since she's started crawling."

"That's why we have a pushchair, John. But never mind. If you want to go on your own, I understand."

John wasn't sure he understood.

The first Remembrance Sunday after Sherlock's return, John had attended the National Service at the Cenotaph out of a fierce need for the clarity of the action.

He'd forgiven Sherlock. What else could he do but forgive him, after all? The stupid, wonderful, brilliant, confusing clot was beyond John's ability to ever truly condemn, in spite of his flaws. But, having forgiven, John had needed to draw a line between Sherlock's world, and what John would always think of as his own world: the world of the soldier. For John that world resonated with meaning, honor, discipline, sacrifice. He could not, he thought, love Sherlock as he did, or forgive him at all, if he had not already known the love of soldiers for their comrades in arms. After the revelations of the past days, John had desperately needed to reclaim his own world.

John had put on his beret and medals and gone to stand with the nation, surrounded by men and women who'd served—some still in uniform, others, like him, retired and wearing only honors and berets. Mary had stood beside him, his hand gripped tight in hers, and he'd felt right with the world: an English veteran with his English fiancée at his side, honoring the English men and women who'd died in English wars for England's safety.

Sometimes John hungered and thirsted for things to be as simple and as clean as that ideal. He was a man with a love of danger, but less love for secrets hidden among the shadows. He was what he was, in his own mind. In his own mind he was the better for it. What you saw in John Watson was what you got: soldier, doctor, patriot. A man whose fiercest passions were still tied in one way or another to the battlefield and the bonds between warriors. He knew he fell short of the fussy old phrases: sea-green incorruptible, honor-bright, true-blue. That didn't mean he didn't try to live up to them.

The second Remembrance Sunday after Sherlock's return, Mary was pregnant, they were barely talking, and John couldn't bring himself to go at all. He'd bought a poppy, stopped at the pub on the way back from work to toast absent friends, and gone home late to find Mary crying silently at her dresser. He'd walked away that night and slept on the sofa alone.

He had no idea if Sherlock had attended the service or not, that year or any other. John hadn't asked. Sherlock had not, to the best of his knowledge, attended in the years they'd roomed together…though that meant nothing. John had gone on his own those years, on a silent pilgrimage, and one he was reluctant to share with Sherlock and his acid commentary.

This year felt more complicated. This year he was tired of England—angry with England. He was tired of politics, at home and abroad. He was tired of knowing just a sliver too well that behind the clean ideals lay a vast and shadowed wilderness of filthy secrets and ugly lies, and men and women who fought in shadows, as shadows, and with shadows.

oOo

"Are you going to the service on Sunday?" Mary asked on Wednesday. She was standing in the door of the sitting room, the baby caught up under one arm. The girl made wild star-fish shapes in the air, arms and legs waving as she giggled her delight.

"I don't know," John said, irked. "I haven't decided."

Mary shrugged forgivingly, shooting him a comforting smile. "I wouldn't ask, only your Major Sholto wanted to know if you'd like to go with him, this year."

"He called?" John felt a thrill—an unexpected lightening of heart—at the thought.

"I called him, I'm afraid," Mary said. "I wanted to thank him for the christening gift. But once I had him on the line he seemed to want to talk. He sounded a bit lonely. I think it might be nice if the two of you went together. I know he doesn't feel comfortable out in public on his own." She rolled the baby over and tickled her, making funny faces and funnier noises as the girl laughed and squealed. "He seemed so happy to hear from us."

While not as flattering as thinking the major had called him, it was nice to know he cared. And Mary was right—the major didn't like going out on his own.

"You're sure he wants company?"

She looked up. "Yeah." She grinned. "I may not be working the desk at the practice these days, but I can still take a message, love."

"I'll tell you what, I'll email and see if he's interested."

"No, call." When he looked at her she gave him the amused look he both loved and hated in her—the look that, in odd ways, reminded him of Sherlock's endless eye-rolling and disgust at John's mere mortal stupidity. Mary was milder, but like Sherlock she had a knack for knowing the right and the wrong of things, including things about John Watson. "Call. Really. It's more personal."

Which seemed like exactly why he ought to send an email, but…he couldn't deny it would be good to hear the major's voice. He didn't call then—it felt too much like obedience. He did call later, after Mary and the baby were in bed, though. He and the major talked for hours… It was good to talk to another soldier; another veteran. It was like coming home after a long absence, to the family that understood his language and knew his heart.

oOo

"Are you going to the service tomorrow, then, love?" Mary asked, as she tucked the baby in for the night. The little girl was just beginning to sleep through nights, and Mary was delighted. Now when she wrapped her daughter up and turned out the light, she could fantasize about entire hours of uninterrupted sleep.

"The major's picking me up tomorrow, yeah," John replied. "We'll leave early. Want to get a good spot right up near the Cenotaph this year. He comes up to town so seldom, it seems a shame for him to end up halfway down the road and yards back from the parade, after all. If all he sees is the back of people's heads, he might as well stay in the country."

"Good planning," Mary said. "I'm glad I got your best suit cleaned last week." She smiled, and accepted his hug. "Oh, I've invited Sherlock over for dinner, Friday next. You're not on call, and I thought I'd make a pot of stew and get some of that great bread from over at our bakery. Sound good?"

"Sounds great. He have any cases coming up?"

"One just ending, but nothing you'd have liked. Not even one chase, apparently." She smiled.

He didn't. It still irked him that she and Sherlock thought of him as some kind of danger addict. It wasn't like that, really-just a bit of a taste for action. At his age he didn't have that many years left when he could go running through the streets playing cops and robbers, after all. When they teased him about it he wanted to shout at them, pointing out that they only used it to explain why he put up with their wildness.

Still…

"You do know my tastes," he admitted, reluctantly. "Any hint he might have a bit more excitement on the way?" Yes, he grumbled to himself, he did hope for that. It just wasn't…

It was different when…

His peculiarities were just not the same. Sherlock and Mary weren't like him.

She smiled. "Not unless something happens over the weekend. Other than that, you'll have to ask him. Give him a call."

He would, he thought. After Remembrance Sunday. After his day with the major.

oOo

John couldn't help it—as soon as he opened the door, his eyes went to the scars, evaluating them, determining how healing was progressing. The answer was "better." But Major Sholto would never be entirely free of the damage. Not unless surgery improved further than John expected in his lifetime—and even surgery couldn't heal the damage inside.

Sholto met his eyes calmly, saying only, "Ever the doctor. So—do you approve of what you see?"

"Yes. They do good work, I'll give them that. I'm sorry if I make you uncomfortable, though. I can't not-look, I'm afraid."

Sholto nodded. "No one can not-look. At least when you look, it's for good reason. You don't see a monster."

John risked commenting on the second thing that commanded his attention.

"Not in uniform?"

"I'm trying to make the transition."

"Thought you said you'd got a permit to wear it, even now."

"It was time to admit to myself I'm not going back." He said it in the same voice dying men used to admit they'd never recover.

John nodded, and said, quietly, "I understand."

"I knew you would."

"They tell me it's part of healing," John said. "Not sure I agree."

Both were silent. Then Sholto straightened. "Ready to go, Captain Watson?"

John snapped to attention. "Sir! Yes, sir!"

They smiled.

"Have a good day, my dears," Mary said, as she leaned in the kitchen door. "Major, take good care of him. Keep him in trouble, if you can manage it. He likes things lively."

"I'll see what I can arrange," the major said, and then they were off.

"You picked a good one," Sholto said, as the taxi rattled through the London streets. "Seems like a winner. Reminds me of Captain Avery, a bit."

"Avery was a tall red-head," John said, frowning, as he called the surgeon's face from memory.

"Oh, you couldn't mistake the two on a dark night with sunglasses on," Sholto agreed. "But I liked Avery. Regular Boudicca, that one. Aside from you, I can't think of anyone I'd rather have look out for my people when things got messy." He thought about it. "Never could figure out why you didn't chase that one until she caught you. God knows she was interested."

"Reminded me of my sister," John said. "A bit—I don't know. I always thought she was interested in Jilly Polari, myself. They looked like a match. Tall and tough goes well with short and sweet."

Sholto gave John an amused look. "Not those two. They both liked boys. It was Corvallis who loved the ladies."

"Really?" John's eyebrows jumped. "I spent six months chasing her, and you never told me?"

"What point? First, you'd have sworn I was wrong. Second-it left more on the field for me," Sholto said, laughing. "Like Avery." He sighed. "I wonder what's become of Avery?"

"No idea," John said. "Not among the dead that I know of."

"We work hard to keep the docs alive. Odds are she made it out, one way or another."

"I hope so," John said. "I can find out for you."

"I can find out on my own," Sholto pointed out. "Good of you to offer, but…. No. I think…not." He stared out the window, watching the streets flow by. "I'd rather she remembered me as I was, assuming she's been able to avoid the tabloids these past few years."

"You're no less a man than you were," John said, fiercely.

"Only less by a few layers of skin, they tell me. But beauty's skin-deep, and that's the layer they took. That and the intangible: the use of one hand. Oh, and the possession of a stable mind." Sholto grimaced—a gargoyle face of irony. "So little to lose…"

John frowned and looked down at his hands. The Army's medical services had been doing remarkably well helping his former commander. As a fellow veteran with his own wounds—internal and otherwise—John knew there wasn't much comfort to be had in pointing out it could be worse.

The phone in his pocket vibrated.

"Do you mind if I get that?"

"No, go ahead." Sholto kept his eyes fixed out the window.

John flicked the phone on.

Are you free? SH

"It's Sherlock. This may take a minute."

"No rush. We're early…and it's still fifteen minutes from here."

John nodded.

Not now. On way to service at Centotaph. Tonight?

Hours till service. Why so early? SH

Want to get good view. Can you get your brother to look someone up for me? Trying to find Cpt. Heather Avery.

Can do. Why? SH

Old friend of mine.

Tsk-tsk. I'll tell Mary on you. SH

Tattle-tale. No wonder your brother's such a grouch. No—asking for a friend.

Who? SH

Maj. Sholto

Oh? Matchmaking? SH

Actually, yes. Can Mycroft find her?

Will see. Will be at Cenotaph later? Can rendezvous. SH

Today is private.

Service at Cenotaph is hardly private. SH

You bloody know what I mean, tosser. Later. After service.

Will get back in touch. B'bye. SH

Which was not exactly a promise, John thought, nervously. Mary had suggested Sherlock was a bit jealous of his friendship with the retired officer. Well—Sherlock, after all! Sherlock could be jealous of anything. If Sherlock took it into his head to protect his turf from invasive military forces, John wasn't sure he wouldn't show up regardless of the importance of the ceremony to both John and Sholto—or to anyone else within reach of Sherlock's voice or actions. Still…the best John could do was hope.

He risked a glance at the older man, who still gazed stoically out the window. He had always been a profoundly private man—able to hold his own socially, but deeply reserved. Command had intensified that. Injury, both physical and emotional, and public infamy, though, were isolating him in ways that worried John.

So few people understood the trauma veterans often fought in solitude. To outsiders they could appear rude, dismissive, judgmental, terse—or, conversely, cold, controlled, and alienated from ordinary life. Even the best acclimated might suddenly be ambushed by loss and grief.

Outsiders weren't even entirely unreasonable in their own suspicions and judgments. Veterans so often needed other veterans…eyes that had seen, ears that had heard, bodies that testified to pain written on what had once been smooth virgin flesh.

John remembered Heather Avery. She'd been bright, skilled, fierce; terrifying to subordinates who failed to meet her standards of excellence, but gruff and kind to her patients or to those she counted as part of her team. She'd seen all war could hand out to a soldier. John didn't think she'd find anything in Sholto to horrify her, unless she suffered the doctor's downfall of being unable to endure what she couldn't repair. He didn't think she was that kind of woman. Even if she was only one more old friend to reclaim the major as her own, that was one more human friend he didn't have at the moment.

He slipped the phone into his pocket. "Thanks for your patience," he said, glad to think Mycroft might soon be hunting up Avery for him. "I'm done, now. We may run into Sherlock later."

"How is that long tall drink of water you run around with, anyway?" Sholto asked, looking back. "Still keeping you honest?"

John laughed. "I'm not sure that's what I'd say Sherlock does for me. More likely to drag me into trouble, if you must know."

"I'd have said he was the last person you'd dare risk a lie with. 'The Great Detective,' I think they're calling him, aren't they?"

"Well, yes…there's that. Between him, his brother, and Mary, there's not much I can hope to get away with." John grimaced. "Bit of a handicap, that."

"Not so much. You never could lie worth a damn, John. Remember that time Chadwick stole the colonel's copy of 'Deathly Hallows' and hid in the laundry all night reading it? And fell asleep and got tipped into the tubs? And you tried to come up with a lie to cover for him?"

John laughed. "How was I supposed to be convincing with him soaked to the skin and howling that Harry was dead and Neville was fighting Snape?"

"Yes, but John—saying he'd got caught in the rain? In August? In Afghanistan?"

John shrugged, then laughed along with Sholto. "All right, all right." He pointed reprovingly at Sholto's nose. "I may not be a good liar, but you have to admit, I'm a good doctor."

"A very good doctor."

"And a good soldier?"

"A damn good soldier."

"And I can drink you under the table."

"No. No, John, you can't," Sholto said, kindly. "You really can't."

John sighed gustily. "All right, I can't. But it was worth a try…"

The men were laughing as the cab pulled up by St. James Park, along the Mall. They paid the cabby, then started walking south, heading for Parliament Street. Soon John realized he was going to have to work to match the other man's pace.

"Married life's made you soft," Sholto said, joking.

"Just my fate to make friends with tall men," John grumbled. "You. Sherlock. Make me stretch to keep up." He shifted into a quick-march tempo, scanning the park vigilantly. It wasn't that hard to know there was a major public event in the works: the park, blocks away from the Cenotaph and Whitehall, still held an unusually large number of uniformed police patrolling the footpaths. "And I'll admit, Mary cooks well. I'm not as fit as I once was. Or as young."

"Start the day with a run, take a couple mile walk every afternoon, that will soon shape you up," Sholto chuckled.

"Is that what you do?"

"Every day. Try to keep fit. That and my physical therapy make…other things easier." Sholto attempted to flex his bad hand, almost absentmindedly. "I'm told I'm making good progress." His voice made it clear that what progress he was making was too little to comfort him. "It's all pretty dull, to tell the truth. Eternity in boot camp, without the hope of a posting to urge me on."

"You should get a dog. Take him out with you."

"Maybe go hunting? How pip-ever-so-ho. No. I'm not sure what comes next. I'm not fit for what I once did, and may never be fit for the kinds of unskilled labor a man of my age might hope to fall into easily. If I weren't notorious I'd be like too many of us: out of work, out of money, and out of any hope for a future."

"That would be a waste of a good man," John growled.

Sholto shrugged, and glanced around the park as they cut through. Others were there, like John and Sholto, planning to get places early. More than a few wore berets, or medals. More than a few showed the signs of injury, too.

A hunched, skinny old man came up carrying a tray of poppies. "Buy one, sirs? In memory of absent friends?" He was scruffy and ill-kempt, his uniform moth-eaten and too large, speaking of a time he'd been a hearty soul. Now he was thin as a reed, and bent over, his shoulders rounded with age. The only sign of fat on his body was a little round pot belly, saggy at his belt-line. He shoved the tray toward them, making sure they could see the labels indicating the money went to the Royal British Legion to support programs for veterans.

John stopped, realizing he didn't have a poppy. He glanced at Sholto.

"Two," the major said, digging in his pocket with his good hand. He nimbly flipped his wallet open, one-handed, and managed to slip out a five-pound note without dropping it, bracing the leather against his chest. "John, if you'll take those?"

John took two poppies from the tray, avoiding the old man's eyes, feeling guilty for seeing him so fallen with age and hard times. He pinned one to his coat lapel, then turned to Sholto. "May I?"

Sholto nodded, face clearly uncomfortable with having the service done for him, but willing to accept it from an old friend. John reached up and slipped the pin through the base of the poppy, setting it firmly on Sholto's chest.

"There. Now we're properly kitted out."

Sholto nodded again. "Let's get on," he said. "Find a place as soon as we can. If we're quick we may at least have a view of the Cenotaph.

"I hear there's places just past King Charles street with a good view still," the old man croaked. "If you're quick you can make it."

The old man was right. It was even better than John had hoped: there was a tree just past the raised and railed terraces fronting the Foreign Offices that hadn't yet been claimed. The two men staked it out as their own territory, both leaning against the thick trunk.

"We should have brought coffee," John said. "Mary would have made it for us, If I'd thought to ask."

"She doesn't have enough to do minding the baby?"

"I think the baby's probably below her proper pay scale," John said, trying not to speculate about the comparative demands of motherhood and espionage-with-wet-work. "A jug of coffee wouldn't ruffle her feathers."

Which was true. Mary was unflappable.

"Not having second thoughts now, are you?" Sholto said, eyes worried. "I liked that woman. I'd hate for this to blow up on either of you now."

John shrugged, and shook his head. "No. No second thoughts."

"You're a bad liar, John. Are things bad?"

He thought about it. "No. Just—not what I'd thought I was signing on for." Which seemed safe enough to say. As near as he could determine, no one got what they thought they were signing on for when they got married. "I wouldn't pick differently."

Sholto studied him. "That's the truth. I think. I wish your Sherlock were here to confirm it, though."

John sighed. "It's the truth. I just—I thought I was getting a handgun, and ended up with a long-range mortar. I got more firepower than I bargained on."

"Sounds like you got a winning deal," Sholto said, warily.

"I just thought I was a small-arms sort of man in a small-arms sort of market," John said, and chuckled. "And if you dare say that in front of any of our mates I'll deny I ever said it. No—Mary's just… She turned out to be more woman than I realized."

"That's supposed to be a good thing."

"She's…" He sighed. "I'd say she's got a past, but people hear that and think I mean she ran around. She's just…" He thought about it. "If I said she was in a witness protection program, it would be a lie. An outright lie. But it would be closer to the truth than most of the true things I could say about her that I can say. And she's the kind of person who ends up in witness protection programs. If that makes sense to you."

Sholto thought about it. "Which of you is best on the shooting range, John?"

John blinked. "I have no idea. I never thought to take her. I'd…place my money on her, though."

Sholto's brows flicked up. "That good? I'm impressed. You should take her out shooting."

"Somehow when I married, the last thing on my mind was taking my bride to the shooting range."

"Maybe that's your problem, then," Sholto said. "Your imagination wasn't working very hard." He chuckled. "I used to take Captain Avery out for practice. She was good. Not sharpshooter good. But good. Big enough to handle the heavy stuff, too. Big tall woman like that, with those hips—recoil didn't even make her blink."

"You always did like the wild ones," John said, remembering. "Some of your girls scared the life out of me."

"And you always dated the milky misses," Sholto chuckled. "They're the ones who scared me! I was always afraid one day you'd slip up and marry one, and be bored to death in a month. I used to say a little prayer of thanks each time another one got tired of being dragged around like your proof you were normal."

"I'm not gay," John growled. "I wasn't dating beards."

Sholto looked at him, surprised. "I didn't think you were, John. Bi, maybe; almost anyone can be bi. But not gay: it was too clear you liked women and liked being straight. A man who likes both of those things usually isn't going to swing left as long as he can possibly swing right—it's too much grief for too little gain. No, I just thought you were dating vanilla to try to prove you weren't pistachio fudge ripple. You like to blend. That's all I'm saying."

John hesitated, still on the angry edge of losing his temper. Only when he was sure Sholto was telling the truth did he ease up and relax. "Okay. Sorry. I just…" He shrugged, and looked away. "Ever since I moved in with Sherlock back in the day, I've been dealing with people assuming we're…you know. A couple. It gets old."

"No fun people thinking you're something you aren't," Sholto agreed, calmly. "Not that it would matter if you were."

"Of course not," John said. "It's all good. But I'm not. We're not."

"Well it stands to reason," Sholto said. "He's not vanilla enough to appeal to you that way. You probably wouldn't have married Mary if she didn't blend better than your detective does. Wouldn't fit your profile." He glanced at John and said, softly, "Relax, John. Today, of all days, relax. I understand. A man loves his comrades. It's a bond. More than friendship. More than almost anything. Holmes—he's your comrade in arms. 'Greater love hath no man than this, that he will lay down his life for his friends.'" His good hand drifted up and stroked the poppy on his chest. "Love. Sometimes it's not about names and labels. You know that as well as I do."

John felt his heart fill, and fill more, remembering…

Hot days in Kandahar. Cold nights in the hills. Sholto's voice leading scared soldiers into battle. The same voice talking for hours, talking until he was hoarse, as he and John sat outside an operating theater one long, long night, sharing a bottle of ouzo one undiluted licorice sip at a time, until they were both blind drunk and crying.

It had been Avery who'd come out to tell them the bad news that night. Avery who'd joined them in tears, then dragged them off to a couple of empty beds to sleep it off.

"Avery. She was the one who told us about Lou, wasn't she," he said.

"That she was," Sholto agreed. "She's the one who made arrangements for us to get that day off, too. Called Vickery herself, bless every red hair on her head and freckle on her nose. I don't think I ever loved a woman so much as I loved Heather Avery that afternoon, when I finally woke up and found a cold-pack, a jug of water, and a carafe of coffee. Oh, and an entire bottle of aspirin."

"Oh, God, I remember that." John sighed. He leaned back on the tree trunk. "Sherlock would have been a piss-poor soldier, major. But you're right. He's that kind of friend." He looked down the road at the Cenotaph. "Weird, thinking that for two years I was visiting a memorial, not a grave. Empty. At least, empty of Sherlock… Do you think of them often? The ones who died?"

"Every day."

"I moved on. From Afghanistan. From Sherlock's death. But it marks you."

"That it does," Sholto said, dry as Kandahar dust.

John flinched. "No. No, I didn't mean—" Sholto's scars shouted at him.

"I know you didn't, John," Sholto said, wearily. "But it's true."

John allowed Sholto to meet his eyes, to hold his gaze, to force forgiveness on him. He had no right to refuse that forgiveness—not at the price his guilt would cost his friend. "All right." He looked out over the street. The area was beginning to fill. Police in bright vests guarded the reserved seating, and walked the area, keeping an eye out for suspicious packages and rucksacks. Workmen came with trucks carrying nested piles of portable guard rails. They set them out along the kerb.

"Coffee, gentlemen? Courtesy of Mr. Holmes."

The voice at John's elbow was pretty and prim and professional. He turned. "Anthea?"

She smirked.

"All right, technically not Anthea," he conceded. He turned to Sholto. "Anthea, my former commander, Major James Sholto. Major, this is not Anthea. She may or may not work for Sherlock's brother."

"And she's beautiful and appears to have brought us coffee, John," Sholto pointed out. He gave Anthea a little bow. "We're in your debt."

"Technically you're in Mr. Holmes' debt," she said, "but I'll be happy to claim whatever debt he fails to collect." She dimpled, eyes bright.

Sholto smiled, and John felt a flutter seeing the first sign he'd seen of the old, beloved Sholto of years before—a Sholto who'd been quiet, and reserved, but poised and graceful too, and well able to charm women when he chose. "Can't have you depending on your employer's leftovers," he said. "Consider us duly grateful—and if you need more, ask John and he'll tell you where to find me for second helpings."

She grinned outright. "I'll keep that in mind. Meanwhile…" She held out two large thermos flasks on wide straps. "Coffee, gentlemen. Oh, and Captain Watson? Mr. Holmes says to tell you that he'll get to work on that query you sent him, as soon as he's got a bit of free time."

"Apparently Remembrance Sunday's not sufficient grounds for taking a day off?"

She sniffed, then, and looked down her pert nose. "Mr. Holmes has commitments today. Major Sholto, a pleasure meeting you. I'm afraid I've got work to do of my own." Saying that, she turned and stalked away.

"You annoyed the pretty lady," Sholto observed.

John nodded. He removed the cup from Sholto's thermos, then opened up his flask. It was sealed with an outer cup, and in inner stopper. He filled both cups, gave one to Sholto, then returned the stopper to its place, hanging the flask over one shoulder. "I never have had much luck with Anthea. I'm afraid she's loyal to Mycroft Holmes before all else."

"Even before God and country?" Sholto chuckled, taking a sip from his cup.

"God I can't guess about. Country? If Sherlock's right, loyalty to Mycroft isn't that far from the same thing."

"Cabinet minister?"

"High level civil service. Hush-hush. Almost certainly a spook. Though that's a guess in the end. Officially he'll tell you he's just a minor civil servant. A mere cog in the vast machine of state."

"MI5? MI6?"

"What day of the week?" John savored the coffee, then said, "I've got reason to think he does anti-terrorism detail. Beyond that—the rumors suggest that he says 'jump' and Downing Street starts singing 'Jeremiah Was a Bullfrog.'"

"No wonder he's busy today, then," Sholto said.

"Hmmm?"

Sholto looked out over the expanse of Whitehall and Parliament Street and up to the Cenotaph in the center of the roadway. "Anti-terrorism has to be working full staff and balls to the wall, today. Parades, royals, honored veterans—and a mob stacked ten deep? All England and a fair lot of Europe? Nightmare to secure. Worse than chasing Pashtun tribesmen through the gorges. Urban fighting is bad. Trying to secure an urban space is worse. If your man's half what you think he may be, he's either masterminding a war room or he's on the prowl, reviewing territory."

"War room," John said, stunned at the realization. "Mycroft will definitely be running the war room." He blinked, then grumbled. "And Sherlock will be on the prowl. Mycroft will have drafted him into it."

Sholto shot him a surprised glance. "Ooooh, no love lost there, is there? What do you have against Sherlock's brother?"

John grimaced. "Depending on how you look at things, either Mycroft helped save Sherlock's life and ensured the country was safe from a major master criminal. Or he got Sherlock in over his head and 'saved' him by having him jump off a very tall building after his reputation was ruined—with me drafted as primary witness and recipient of the suicide note."

"You hold with the latter theory?"

John shrugged, then added, "He'll do what he can to keep Sherlock alive—I'll give him that much. But the man's… a spook. Cold, manipulative, and damned if I trust his long-term goals."

"Keeping Great Britain safe, surely?"

John let a grudging eye roll and a slight cock of his head answer that question: an agreement, but one that was intentionally hostile. "He's a bit of a prick."

"You always were regular army," Sholto said, chuckling softly. "Might have known an ARAB* like you wouldn't like spooks."

"Who does?"

"I've met some I could like. Some I could respect."

"Army Intelligence?"

Sholto laughs. "You're not going to tell me that's an oxymoron?" He considers. "A few. Sent a clever soldier or two on to the greenflies**, actually. I worked with some secret service officers in Afghanistan. MI6. CIA. Ours, the Yanks'."

"You hear stories," John said.

"We all hear stories. There are rumors about everyone. Some of them are true." He leaned back against the tree, eyes distant, as he drank his coffee and thought. "Some aren't. I should know."

"Torture. Illegal extraditions." John studied his friend's face, offended to the core.

"Yes." Sholto scanned the road.

John swore, softly.

Sholto looked at him, then, blue eyes quiet, still far away—cool and detached, reminding John almost of Mycroft.

"You're not going to excuse it," John snapped. "It's obscene."

Sholto nodded. "Yes."

John found himself alive with energy—with anger. "And?"

"And what, John? You've been in service. Tell me—who's pure? Who's without sin?" He closed his eyes. "There were good spooks, and bad spooks, and plain ordinary spooks trying to do the job when it was all just a bit too far out of control…and the bastards who should have been in control were egging it on. Tell me it wasn't the same for us. And it wasn't just the Coldstream Guards…not only them." He opened his eyes again, aching and pale and blue. "'Mistakes were made.' Should I damn them all because some were damnable? They're soldiers, no less than you were. No less than I was. Soldiers in a hidden war that no one can see or admit to, for fear the war come in from the shadows and run crazy through the sunlight."

The frustration was too much. John bolted from their position at the tree and paced away, before swinging back. Sholto didn't surrender in the face of John's anger. John turned away; veered back, on the verge of shouting; then away again.

"John? Might want to steady down. You're worrying some of our people." The familiar voice came from behind, and John spun, finding Greg Lestrade close by him. The DI was dressed in uniform, complete with a stab vest and brightly colored emergency services vest. He had a baton at his hip.

"Greg? What—did they demote you when I wasn't looking?"

Lestrade laughed. "No. Short-handed. They're taking help from everyone who's ever done street duty. Me, I started on a beat."

John chuckled. "You think one man's going to make a difference?"

Lestrade cocked his head, and said, "One's all there ever is to make a difference. Seriously, though—I don't know why you were losing your temper, but it shows. Had a fresh recruit ready to haul you in on suspicion. Not a good day for acting up or acting out. Don't want to haul you in on an ASBO today of all days."

"Sorry." John ducked, looking at his toes. "Was talking to an old friend, and—something he said just set me off." He looked at the detective. "Tell me, Greg—what do you think of spooks?"

Lestrade's brow furrowed, and he snorted. "Like ghosts?"

"No. Like secret service."

Lestrade shrugged. "Work with them," he said, calmly. "Sometimes they horn in where they've no call going. Sometimes we're glad of the backup. Sometimes we're more than glad we can dump it all in their laps. Why?"

John shook his head. "To my friend, my old commander, they're just soldiers, like him. To you they're just cops."

"What are they to you?" Lestrade was, as always, bluff and good natured, waiting for an answer John found he had to struggle with.

"They're liars," he said at last. "Manipulative liars. Spies."

"And an undercover copper working on a case?"

"That's different."

Lestrade considered, and then said, simply. "No. It's really not." He smiled. "Come introduce me to your friend before I have to get back to work."

The two men got along, John thought, watching them chat in the few minutes Greg had before his communication link blipped him back on duty. Lestrade showed no sign of dismay at Major Sholto's scars, meeting his eyes and talking easily. Lestrade managed to get past Sholto's natural reserve, as well as past the shyness both injuries and notoriety had taught him. John was pleased to see both men laughing easily, by the end.

"Nice man," Sholto said, after the DI had gone. "How'd you meet?"

"Through Sherlock. He's a DI with the Met—one of the few who will work with Sherlock. Which is a lucky thing for Sherlock, since Sherlock won't work with anyone else."

"Nice he can be so picky," Sholto said. "How's he make ends meet, playing that sort of game?"

"Work comes in. And he doesn't take pay from the Met in any case. Only private cases. Or work from Mycroft."

Sholto laughed. "He's a consultant for the secret service and you…" He stopped himself. "Never mind. Sorry. It's a good day…sorry to put it at risk." He glanced around. "Isn't that the man who sold us the poppies?"

John followed his pointing finger. "Yeah. Working the crowd, now."

"Hope he sells a million of them, today."

John's fingers brushed his poppy. "Yeah." He stared firmly at the Cenotaph, then. "Remember Sam Wang?"

"I remember. And Jonesy?"

"I remember."

They nodded, silent in the face of the past.

The crowd had slowly grown around them, filling the pavement, filling the raised terrace behind the marble rail fronting the building façade. The steel barrier rails were now lined two-deep between the road and the footpath. The road was empty, but for a sprinkling of police and other staff and crew patrolling the area. When John looked to his right he could see the bands massing for the parade and the veteran's march-past.

The tall, thin man with the poppies was up the way, almost directly opposite the Cenotaph. He flung a leg over the steel barriers, first one then the other, then loped across the road, followed by a shouting policewoman who blew her whistle and raced after him. She caught up with him on the far side, and the two engaged in a vigorous argument, the man gesturing dramatically to his tray of poppies and shaking his head, the policewoman protesting. In the end, though, she gave up, shooing him across the barriers into the crowd at the other side of the roadway flanking the open space through which the queen and other royals would proceed for the laying of the wreathes.

"What a drama queen," Sholto chuckled. "He's determined to cover every inch of the place, isn't he?"

John frowned, watching the man move among the onlookers. Tall, thin, reedy…dramatic.

"Damn," he said.

"What?"

"I'll lay odds that's Sherlock," John said. "I said Mycroft would have dragged him into this."

Sholto frowned, and stared at the poppy seller. "You think so? Wouldn't you have recognized him when he sold us our poppies?"

John shook his head, ruefully. "I've got no talent. He's proven it. Hell, he practically had to hit me over the head when he came back. Nothing but an eyeliner moustache, a filched pair of glasses, and a rubbish French accent, and I still didn't recognize him."

"You weren't expecting a dead man."

"No. And I did have my mind on other things. But the same is true today. He can manage it, when he sets his mind to it." He studied the man some more. "Age can be faked. Posture, movement. I bet it's him."

"Want to chase him down after the service and see? I'll bet you a tenner it's not him."

"Doubt we can catch up with him… and if we don't, Sherlock would never admit to it later."

"Fair enough. What do you say: we try to chase him down. If we do, and I'm right, you owe me ten. If I'm wrong, I owe you. And if we can't catch him, the bet's off unless we can find some other way to prove it."

"Safe enough," John said. He offered his hand. "Shake, then."

The bet was soon forgotten, though, as the ceremony began. The representative units formed up flanking the roadway. Then the regimental bands and the pipe and drum corps marched in, and the music began. "Rule Britannia," of course, then "Heart of Oak," and on, through the Traditional Music of Remembrance.

They were perfectly placed—as close as could be without the view being blocked by the backs of the honor guard, and as close to the street as could be hoped for. Even John, short though he was, could watch the slow, stately progression of the ceremony. When the altar boys, priests, and representatives of the Royal Chapel came out of the Foreign Office he could see them—sober, stately. Four poppies marked the center of the brass cross that led the procession.

"Who believes in that anymore?" someone murmured.

John remembered back to the day he'd found himself dragged into the case of the woman in pink, and the "serial suicides."

I believe, he thought. I believe when I'm facing my own death. I believe when I'm fighting for a soldier's life, and he's bleeding out faster than I can stick him back together. And I believe when the bands are playing, and I need to cry and can't.

A woman walked past, appearing ordinary, but John spotted the earpiece and heard her murmur as she walked by. One of Mycroft's myrmidons, no doubt…or if not Mycroft's, some other commander's. One more sent out to patrol a hostile border—this time an invisible border, a hidden war zone in the heart of the home front.

It irked him. In truth, it had always irked him, from the time he'd first met Mycroft Holmes. He could remember the tall man standing in the empty spaces of the vast, echoing warehouse, challenging him to choose sides in a war John didn't want to see—war in a land that was at peace, in a city of civilians.

"Most people blunder around this city and all they see are streets and shops and cars. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield. You've seen it already, haven't you?"

John felt his jaw tighten. It was one thing to race at Sherlock's side, to enter the fray with his comrade in arms. It was another to accept Mycroft's premise of a city locked in mortal combat, in a land that was never truly at peace. It suggested that what Mycroft did was no different from what John had once done…and John found that unsettling, both for what it said about what he had done, and what it suggested about Mycroft Holmes and his motives and his imperatives. Accepting the notion of Mycroft as an embattled commander in a never-ending war made it too easy to forgive his actions in what John wanted to believe was a civilian world, and a civilian role.

What Mycroft did as Sherlock's brother was suspect at best, deplorable at worst. John didn't want to think of Mycroft as anything other than Sherlock's brother. For that matter, he didn't want to think of Sherlock as anything but Mycroft's brother—bound by the most civilian of relationships, no more.

The Prime Minister. The House of Commons. Cabinet ministers. Representatives of multiple faiths. All came out, dressed and pressed, somber in black and in robes of state, carrying wreaths. It shouldn't have brought tears to John's eyes. It did. It felt redeeming, like winter rain in Kandahar after a long, parched summer. John could remember standing out in a winter rain, letting the water flow down his face, breathing the smell of wet earth and growing things, looking at hills turned green with new-sprung life.

Why did the honor paid the fallen dead soothe him? What hurt hidden in his heart did the acknowledgement of the nation heal? He couldn't say—he only knew it mattered. Their service was not forgotten. Their sacrifices weren't despised. Today the highest in the land came to offer their respect and their mourning.

The troops were called to attention, then. John glanced at his watch—it was mere minutes until eleven o'clock: the eleventh hour. The time of the silence.

"Here she comes," Sholto said, straightening. "The queen."

They stood erect. Sholto reached up and removed his beret, holding it over his heart. John did the same.

Her Majesty came out at the head of a file of royals: Prince Phillip had been spared, as his health was poor, but Prince Charles was there, and Princess Anne. John and Sholto's eyes, though, were fixed on the queen.

She was so small a woman, John thought. She had grown so old. She'd reigned longer than he'd lived, her rule as long as Victoria's own***.

"The Queen, God bless 'er," Sholto said, as she took her place in front of the Cenotaph. His voice was fond. "Thank God that's not my job."

"What—wave, smile, cut ribbons, raise corgis? I think it's within your skill level," John said.

"Better her than me. I'd go crazy," Sholto said.

John scanned the shadowed balcony of the Foreign Office. Was it his imagination, or did he see a tall, balding ginger in a spotless suit, hand to one ear as though stabilizing a headset, eyes fixed on the operational area? A general marshalling his troops, hidden among the dignitaries and officials present?

Big Ben began to toll, and the crowd went still, even before the Royal Horse Artillery fired the shot marking the silence. Then the shot was fired, and silence fell.

It was a stillness like no other John could name. He could feel the weight of thousands keeping quiet. The cry of a baby, the shout of a small child—these only served as accent to the heavy, brooding dumb show of the nation in mourning. Two minutes crept by, eked out in slow seconds—and then, too soon, were gone. The second shot was fired, and the "Final Post" was blown on silver bugles.

Queen Elizabeth II stepped forward and placed the wreath, followed by her family…

"God," Sholto said. His voice was shaking. "God." He groped in his pocket, and dredged up a tissue. He blew his nose; the sound was hidden in the playing of the band, though, as the politicians began the slow process of placing their own wreaths on the steps of the Cenotaph. Face grim, he brushed tears away with his good hand. John tried to disguise his own blotting as mere rubbing of his face.

"That's something," he shouted, over the music. "That's…something."

Sholto nodded.

The process seemed to take forever, but still, it filled John's heart.

Everything that day moved him. The opening prayer. The hymn—and heaven knew, "Oh, God, Our Help in Ages Past" was not something he made a habit of singing for shits and giggles. The words of the Lord's Prayer, said by thousands, echoed off the hard faces of the buildings, seeming to counterbalance the weighty silence that had come earlier. Then, at last, the area was cleared of thrones, powers, and dominions, and it was time for celebration, and the bands, and the march-past of the veterans in rank after rank.

John smiled at Sholto. Sholto smiled back, his ravaged face shining with a light that seemed to fill the day—bright midday sunshine gilding the buildings, the Cenotaph, the crowd, and the marching men and women. The light glinted off brass horns, flashed on chrome drum fittings, danced over medals kept in dark drawers from one end of the year to the next.

Sholto pounded John's shoulders in friendship and delight. John pounded back. Then they were hugging each other, laughing and crying and filled with something so huge John felt he'd explode with love and grief and wonder.

They leaned together, then, backs against the trunk of the tree, and watched their brothers and sisters march. It was a river that flowed on, and on. Old faces. Young faces. Blind men with white sticks. Men and women in wheel chairs. Berets and tams, caps and ghurka hats.

"My God, we're something," Sholto murmured. "How can you not be proud to have been part of that, eh? For good or ill, right or wrong, just look at us."

John did, until he could bear the beauty no longer. He looked away, then. If he hadn't, he'd have missed it.

The tall man with the poppies was on the move, sliding fast through the crowd. His eyes scanned the area of operation, evaluating, plotting his moves. John could almost hear the clockwork gears whirl. His hands dropped into the tray.

John frowned. Someone was moving toward the man at high speed, elbowing through the crowd. No, more than one person—multiples. John could just make them out, a band, like wolves hunting in high grass, the throng rippling aside for them as they raced toward the tall man and his tray.

He glanced back, and John could read fierce determination in the gesture. His head swung back around, and his hands came up, holding something. John started to race forward, scrambling to get over the steel tubing of the barriers.

"Sherlock!"

Someone hit the tall man, and he went down. Even over the playing of the regimental bands, John could hear screams then. The veterans marched on, oblivious, focused on their route, on the music, on the brilliance of the day. Only a few were aware of the drama unfolding…

The tall man was up again, his shirt stained poppy red. He drew an arm back, preparing to throw…

Another form hit him, midsection, and he went down.

Sholto had come up behind John, grappled him with tight arms around his waist. He was shouting something, but John barely noticed, desperate to get past the second barrier and across the road, to where the tall man had fallen. He batted frantically at Sholto, shouting, "No, Sherlock's down…"

More arms joined Sholto's.

"John, stop it, I'm here…"

John spun, staring.

Sherlock's hands gripped him tight. "I'm here, John. That's not me."

"I thought…" John stopped, gasping, then tried again. "I thought it was you. I thought Mycroft had drafted you for security patrol."

Sherlock cocked his head. "He did. But why would I dress up as an old man with a poppy tray? Really, John, do try to think sensibly. I can patrol quite as well without a costume as with one."

"Because you're a drama queen?" John growled. "Because you love it when the game is on?" He went limp, then, shaken with relief. "God. If that's not you, who is it?"

Sherlock and Sholto helped John work his way back out from between the barriers.

"No idea," Sherlock said. He paused, one hand going up to an earpiece John hadn't noticed. "Mycroft says he's an anarchist. Of all the archaic things to be…" He paused, listened a moment longer, then said, more soberly. "He was carrying fragmentation grenades. Old-style-hundred-foot effective radius."

"What?" Sholto was horrified. "That would have taken out a few hundred marchers…and maybe part of the crowd."

Sherlock nodded, but his attention was still fixed on the message coming in over his headset. "The first agent that hit him. He stabbed her." He closed his eyes. "She's not going to make it." He looked at John. "They got her into the Foreign Office before there was too much fuss. Most of the crowd won't ever know what happened. But he was fast, and he knew where to strike. She died before the doctor could even look at her."

John leaned his arms against the trunk of the tree and buried his face against his forearms. "What a thing. What a hell of a thing." He felt the anger surge up. "A day like this, and all that…it's ruined. For some stupid bastard with a grenade."

"Not ruined," Sholto said. "We won."

"What?" John frowned.

"We won," Shotlo said. He grabbed John's shoulders, his good hand gripping, his bad hand a clumsy mitten, but between them he forced John to turn and look. "We won. Look at them, dammit. They're still marching. And damned if I don't think they'd have marched on, even if the sonofabitch had thrown that grenade. Picked up the wounded, picked up the dead, and marched, and marched, and marched till hell itself surrendered. Look at them, John. Look at us—marching still."

The veterans marched, beautiful in the sunlight. John felt the tears well up again, looking at the old faces, the straight backs, the hands gripping sticks and canes. A woman hobbled past in the uniform of the ambulance corps, one leg clearly a prosthetic. Still, she marched.

"He knew what to aim for," said Anthea, materializing beside them. "Nothing else would have hurt half so much as to see them fall."

"Well, they didn't," Sholto said, grinning, "So let's watch the damned parade."

oOo

It was worth every minute. Even as the crowd thinned, people inevitably slipping away after they'd seen whatever part of the event most mattered to them, John, Sholto, and Sherlock stayed on.

"You're not still needed on patrol?" Sholto asked Sherlock.

Anthea had answered for him. "Mr. Holmes feels that the primary threat of the day's been dealt with. He's releasing his brother from duty."

"Not duty," Sherlock grumbled. "I'm just freelancing."

Anthea smirked—an expression she seemed to have learned perfectly from Mycroft. "You'll have to take that up with Mr. Holmes," she said. "I've got to get back to work."

At last the march-past was over. The remaining viewers departed quickly.

Lestrade cruised by. "Well. That was all a bit more exciting than we like to see. But—it could have been worse." He grinned fiercely. "Bastard didn't get away with it."

Sholto met his grin with its twin. "We won."

"Yeah." He went on his way, a bounce in his stride.

The trucks pulled in almost magically, crew pulling up barriers and stacking them quickly.

"Time to go," Sholto said.

"Not yet," Sherlock said. "I've got to talk to Mycroft, first."

"But we don't," John said, firmly. "We can go whenever we like."

"No, no," Sholto said. "I think I want to meet this mysterious brother."

Sherlock grimaced. "Hardly. Mycroft's boring. He's capable, but far from congenial. I, however, know a great little pub the parliamentary staff sneak off to, and if you wait for me I'll take you around after."

John rolled his eyes, but between Sherlock and Sholto he was convinced. In the end he was glad he waited.

The shadows were beginning to stretch by the time Mycroft came out of the Foreign Office. He was dressed, as always, in a perfectly fitted suit, with his umbrella hooked over one elbow. He slipped through the main door, drawing no attention to himself, and John, who'd got caught up in a conversation with Sholto reminiscing over their first shared posting, almost failed to notice. Only Sherlock's sudden shift in attention—the lift of his head, the sudden focus of his eyes—drew attention to his brother's presence.

John looked across the street and waved. Mycroft dipped his head, then lifted a hand slightly in a "wait a moment" gesture.

The man walked quietly, almost ceremonially along the footpath, coming at last to a stop. He looked down, then dropped down to a low crouch, one hand reaching out, fingers brushing the pavement.

"His agent went down there," Sholto said in a voice that brooked no argument.

"Mmm." Sherlock sounded ambivalent, even as he agreed. "Sentiment."

John wasn't sure he agreed. There was a stillness that didn't feel like sentiment to him, but he wasn't sure what else to call it. Mycroft stayed where he was, face still, until a voice called out from the Foreign Office entrance. His head rose, and he straightened, then.

A tall redheaded woman loped out across the pavement, joining Mycroft. From a distance they could have been brother and sister—two tall, rangy gingers standing together. The woman was full-bodied, though, and dressed in business casual clothing—chinos, a white button-down shirt, and a decorative pullover sweater-vest.

"Avery," Sholto said.

John grinned at Sherlock, who crinkled a mischievous grin back at him.

"Avery!" Sholto shouted, and waved. The tall woman looked across the way, and stopped short, before waving in sudden excitement. She turned to Mycroft, said something, and broke into a trot, cutting across the road straight for Sholto, picking up speed as she ran. By the time she reached him she was barreling along at speed, and they hit like charging rams. Heather Avery wrapped her arms around Sholto, laughing in delight.

"You sonofabitch! God, it's good to see you." She paused, and leaned back, laughing happily as she looked at him. She grabbed his head in strong hands, and proceeded to kiss him with plenty of energy and a good deal of tongue. When they surfaced, she smiled. "Missed you, you idjit."

"You could have called," he said, mildly.

"Wasn't sure you'd want to hear from any of us, after all the stink in the papers," she said. "Figured I should let you catch your breath, first."

"But I always liked the way you left me breathless," he said, chuckling.

John felt something float up from his heart like a balloon. He smiled, and leaned toward Sherlock. "You'll have to thank Mycroft for me."

"Thank him yourself," Sherlock murmured.

Mycroft strode across the street, perfectly composed. He hovered for a moment, observing Sholto and Avery, still wrapped up in each other. "A successful reunion, I see."

John grunted agreement. "Thanks for finding her."

"It wasn't the effort you might think. She's been working our London division for almost two years now."

"You recruited her?"

"In a sense." He looked warily at John, then seemed to make a decision. "She'd been undercover with Army Intelligence previously. Doctors hear things. When she was discharged she was recommended to us, and we were happy to accept her for both her medical skills and her additional talents."

John looked over at Avery, stunned, then at Sholto. "Did you know?"

Sholto shrugged. "Like I said. I knew some greenflies I respected." He turned to Mycroft. "And you're the legendary Mr. Holmes."

Mycroft smirked. "Oh, no. That's my baby brother, Sherlock. I just hold a minor position in the government."

"'Minor' being one of those flexible terms," Avery said with a cheeky grin.

Mycroft looked at her, reprovingly. "My dear, I do think you might demonstrate a bit more discretion."

Sholto met Mycroft's eye. "You lost an agent today. My condolences."

Mycroft looked away, uncomfortably. "Casualty of war," he said, briefly…but John noted, with surprise, that his thumb brushed the fingers that had traced the pavement, restlessly. "There are always sacrifices."

Sholto nodded. "Yes. There are." He cocked his head and studied the other man, then unpinned the poppy from his lapel, single-handed. "May I? It's…I've had the use of it. Let me pass it on." He held out the red paper flower.

Mycroft's eyes met his, suddenly wide. He hesitated, mouth opening slightly.

"One veteran to another," Sholto said, softly. "On Remembrance Sunday. Not all the casualties are recognized. But they all earned the poppy."

The last time John had seen Mycroft's face so shattered had been in the Stranger's Room of the Diogenes Club, just before Sherlock jumped from the roof of St. Bart's, as he asked John to tell Sherlock he was sorry…

"I…"

"Here, let me pin it on," Avery said, gently. She took the poppy from Sholto and stepped up to Mycroft, pinning the poppy at precisely the right spot on his lapel. Mycroft's fingers reached up and touched it, gently, and John could see the rusty brown traces of blood dusting the finger tips, picked up from the pavement. He accepted a kiss on the cheek from Avery, then looked at Sholto.

"Thank you. From…one veteran to another. My thanks."

They gazed at each other, heads high, eyes cool and calm. "I've lost men, too," Sholto said.

"I know," Mycroft said. "It's not easy."

"No. It never is."

John turned away then, feeling as though he intruded. He glanced at Sherlock, and said, "Here—why don't you take my poppy, too? It's Remembrance Sunday, after all." He reached for the pin on his poppy, then stopped as his eye traveled to Sherlock's lapel. He froze.

Sherlock was still.

John studied the vivid red stitching around the buttonhole of Sherlock's Belstaff coat.

"Oh."

Sherlock shrugged, and looked away, uneasily.

John reached out and traced the bright flash of color. "It never occurred to me."

"You're reading in," Sherlock said, in a voice that told John that for once he'd guessed right.

"Hidden in plain sight," John said.

"Veterans unseen," Sholto said. "Our brothers in shadow."

oOo

John came home late, and a little bit drunk. Mary met him at the door, and ushered him into the dim sitting room. A single lamp shone at the end of the sofa, where she'd been reading. She curled up again, tucking her legs under her.

"How was Remembrance Sunday?" she asked.

"Good," he said. "Laughed a bit. Cried a bit. Saw a bit of action. Our side won."

"That's nice," Mary said, comfortably. "Get to throw a few punches?"

"Not me. Had a few minutes there when my heart was in my throat, but that's all." He walked through the half-lit room, out of shadows, unpinning his poppy. "I have something for you." He pinned it to her sweater. "A gift of remembrance, from one veteran to another." He ducked his head. "I'm sorry. I only realized today that's what you are. I should have known before."

Her eyes filled. "Oh, John…"

He sat next to her and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "I judged you by the wrong standard—not as a veteran of war, but as a civilian. But you were acting under orders, weren't you?"

She gave him a watery grin, and sniffled. "Within the spirit of the question—yes. You might argue with me about the letter of the law, but not the underlying logic."

He closed his eyes and leaned against her. "That's all I need to know."

And it was, he found. All the things that had rankled seemed transformed. There were things only veterans understood—action under orders, killing as a duty, survival as an obligation to a greater cause, sacrifice as a commonplace necessity, loss as an inevitability. Mourning as a way of life.

"I'm sorry I didn't see it before," he said. He turned out the light, and joined his warrior wife in darkness.

*ARAB: Arrogant Regular Army Bastard, used teasingly by Sholto

**Greenflies: Army Intelligence

***As of the time of this writing, Elizabeth has reigned slightly over one year less than Victoria. Barring the unexpected, however, she will be just barely short of matching Victoria's at the time of the upcoming Remembrance Sunday…close enough to make no difference in John's mind.


End file.
